Spiral Dance
by MAH-BLACKBERREH
Summary: In a world where magic thrives and gods exist, an invalided soldier returns from war and rescues a strange creature from a freak-show. Eventual Sherlock/John
1. Castàil - 1

**AN - **Part One of Spiral Dance.

I got the idea from the fawnlock sub-fandom which I fell in love with as soon as I saw it. The idea hit me one night and I found that I needed to write it, and I only hope I can do it justice. Fawnlock can be found at: fawnlock . tumblr

I messed around with a lot of Celtic symbolism and mythology - and by messed around with, I mean I dismembered it and put it back together to suit my needs. Some of it's fact, and some of it isn't.

Also, as the series goes on each story's rating will go higher. This will eventually be a Sherlock/John romance fic.

Hope you enjoy, and any type of feedback is welcome!

Castàil

1

Ever since Afghanistan, silence was something that John Hamish Watson found he was unable to stand. There was just something ominous about it, no matter how calm or peaceful, that reminded him of the many times he'd spent on the dusty battlefields, waiting for the figurative – and often literal – bomb to drop. There was always that heart stuttering moment of tense anticipation, where one had to wait until the right moment to move forward and/or risk everything.

Silence always reminded him of those moments. Even his plain little apartment in London held those horrifying silences, creeping up on him late at night after the usual bloody nightmare of back when he was in that terrible war. They reminded him of how alone he really was. At least on the battlefield he had his fellow soldiers for company.

But no. He'd been shot and allowed his fellow soldiers to die. If only he'd been that one second quicker, then maybe, _just maybe_, things would have turned out differently.

But no. Having the ability to heal people only worked if you were fast enough to use it.

A century ago, magic was proved real to the world as a whole, and only now were people getting used to it. Humans still went about their business; they advanced and grew, with the rare person among them born with the Gift to use magic.

John was one of those people. His parents always said, before they died, that he was blessed by one of the Ancient Ones. A God. They never said which one, never saw how or when it happened – but they were positive it did. John believed them; in the beginning he was proud of his abilities, even though he could only heal small scrapes and bruises, and half the time it didn't work. His abilities were kept a secret amongst his immediate family because his parents feared that he would be swept away by the government and 'put to use', as many other children born with Gifts were. As he grew older, he had to live with his parents doting and his sister's jealousy, and soon it became too much.

Then his parents died, and he was forced to live with an older sister who quickly resorted to solving her problems with alcohol.

When he was old enough, John decided on the course he wished to take for the rest of his foreseeable life. At first he wanted to be a doctor; his abilities, which had grown in power over the years, would have been put to good use, but in doing so it would have put him under the radar of the government, and John had grown up being told not to put himself in their sights. So the next best thing he thought of was the military – become an army doctor. The military was known for looking after those under their command, and John knew he'd be able to use his Gift for good.

That was how he ended up in Afghanistan. That's where he served his time, fighting for his country against the enemy. Where he saw more horrors than any man had the right to. Where he saw the dark, twisted side of magic and where he discovered that his healing Gift could very well be a Gift of death.

Where he was taken by surprised, shot, and blacked out before he had the chance to save those under his command.

Guilt chewed at him persistently, leaving a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. He thought that not heeling his own injuries would ease it, like some sort of penance, but it did nothing except cause him a constant ache – both in his shoulder and his leg. Sometimes, when the pain became too much, he was almost tempted to give in. Almost.

But no. John was nothing if not stubborn. His therapist gave him a whole list of reasons as to why it was a bad trait, but John never really listened. She always wanted to talk about what happened during the war, saying it would help him deal with his PTSD. _"Why not try writing a blog?" _she suggested.

"_Why should I? No one want's to read about all of the horrible things that they are better off not knowing."_

"_Well you don't have to write about the war. Why not write about what you do every day? Write about the interesting things that happen?"_

John had wanted to laugh, but he held back._ "Nothing happens to me."_

It was true. It was as if he merely existed, drifting from day to day and despairing as the money from his pension wasted away.

Living in silence.

It went on like that for months – always consistent, never changing – until one day, something _did_ happen.

**-SD-**

Over the years, nature had been reclaiming the land that was no longer in use and a great forest now covered a vast majority of England. People were weary of stepping foot in it, and the British government were not permitted to cut it down – it is said that the gods of the forest protected it, and had an alliance with the humans in power. It did not stop the occasional human from exploring, generally the beings that lived in the forest left them alone for the most part –but sometimes, someone went a little too far and stumbled upon the home of a fae, spirit, or even a god, and they were never seen again.

It wasn't a common occurrence by any means – hikers went for a walk, saw the sights, and went back home. People looking for excitement or adventure journeyed there in hopes of catching a glimpse of magic at work. They weren't always lucky, and upsetting the mystical beings usually always resulted in a disappearance, with a body never to be found.

The government was aware of this, but they could do nothing – if a fae or the like performed a transgression on human ground, then they were to be punished by human law. If a human performed a transgression on a god's soil, then they met justice by their terms. In the past it created an uproar among the human populace, but there was little they could do.

The truce between those who held magic and those who didn't was merely for show – it was widely known that if the humans tried to do anything, then they would easily be put to rest. But the truce comforted them in a way, made them feel like they had at least a little power.

John needed to get away from London for a bit. He missed the connection he had with the land back in Afghanistan, something that every Gifted one had, and the disorganised, cold chaos of the city dampened. The Gifted drew their power from the land - John had lived in the city all his life, he never really felt it until Afghanistan, and it was one of the best things about his service in the military. Never before had he felt so capable, so powerful.

He craved that feeling again. Anything to break up the dull consistency his life had taken.

He'd finally gotten a job – a small clinic, close to where he'd studied at St. Bart's. It was tedious and boring; even though his co-worker Sarah was pretty and seemingly interested in a romantic relationship with him, he just didn't feel any spark or attraction. But it payed decently enough, gave him something to do, and he didn't have to use his abilities.

One day after his shift ended, the chaos of the city became too much, just as suffocating as those dreaded silences. Seeking to get away, he hailed a cab and directed the cabbie to take him to the outskirts of London.

To the forest.

It didn't matter where exactly; he just needed to get _out._

So half an hour later, he was dropped off on the very edge of London and was left staring into the darkened expanse of trees. Taking a deep breath, his cane in hand and limp forgotten, he took a step forward and walked.

**-SD-**

There was no silence. The very air was awash with the constant hum of ambient magic; it was warm, almost electric, full of power and life, and so very old and ancient it made John feel, made him _aware_, that he was but one soul among thousands and millions and billions. The forest wasn't just alive – it was life itself, full of all the wonder and mystery and safety and danger that could exist in the world.

John was awed. This is what he had felt like he was missing. The magic in his veins hummed and throbbed in tune with that of the forest, making him feel awake for first time since he came back from Afghanistan. It was mid-Autumn and the ground was littered with leaves the colour of fire. Late afternoon sunlight filtered through the branches, mingling with the electrified atmosphere and highlighting the path before him.

He didn't see anyone else or come across any creatures – but he could feel them close by. Following him and watching. Magic called to magic after all, and though it was a bit strange, the constant feeling of being watched, he wasn't afraid. They would not hurt him.

He'd been walking for a few hours and it was near dark, and he was starting to consider turning back when he saw it. It was a cottage, small, two stories high and overrun by greenery, clearly old and abandoned. It beckoned him to take a closer look and investigate, almost as if it was the forest itself presenting it for inspection.

It made him suspicious; even surrounded by so much magic, his guard wasn't completely lowered. A few hours in a forest didn't wipe out years of instincts honed by war. _Was it a trap of some sort?_

But that was stupid. What was the point? It's not as if he'd done anything to harm the forest or its inhabitants.

But he walked over to it anyway. The outside was probably once painted a vibrant light blue, but now it was faded and chipped all over, covered in vines and all manner of dirt and grime. To roof was missing nearly all of its grey tiles, and it looked like a part of it had caved in. He circled it, noticing what was probably garden but was now completely over-run by wild plants. The back door was missing, and all of the windows were either shattered or completely missing the glass panes. He circled back around to the front, noticing it was in a similar state, but the door was still there – barely hanging on its hinges.

There was a word written on the chipped grey paint – _dùisign_.

John had no idea what it meant. He shoved the word to the back of his mind and gave the door a light push. It gave an eerie creak as it moved and cautiously, John stepped inside.

The light was very dim, but as his eyes adjusted he could clearly make out a short hallway that opened up into a larger room – a lounge-room he guessed. It was bare of any furniture, but there was a hearth taking up a good portion of the far wall – strange, he hadn't seen a chimney outside._It must have been knocked down_, he thought.

There were two doorways on opposite sides of the hearth – John poked his head in and saw a very run-down kitchen, with the open doorway to the back yard. The kitchen had little in the way anything, save for an island bench, a few cupboards and an ancient looking stove. The other doorway led to a staircase – it didn't look very safe, and John debated whether or not to risk walking up them. Once again, curiosity got the better of him.

He used his cane to lightly tap the floorboards. They seemed strong enough. Throwing caution to the wind, he gripped the wooden banister tightly and ascended.

John discovered that the second story consisted of two bedrooms and a bathroom – one of the bedrooms was bigger, obviously the master bedroom, and contained the frame of a queen-sized bed - bare of any mattress – and a wardrobe. The other bedroom was smaller, with no furniture at all. The bathroom only had a toilet, a cramped looking tub, and a sink.

It was all very strange, John thought. There was something about this place that drew him in, called out to each of his senses and made them tingle with a strange familiarity.

It was almost like he'd been there before. It felt like… home.

He wandered back down to the lounge-room and over to one of the shattered windows, pausing to stare out into the depths of the forest. He saw a flicker of movement amongst the trees and his breath caught in his throat. He remained there for a long time without moving, trying to catch a glimpse of – whatever it was he saw.

If he didn't know better he would have thought it was a deer. But no, deer don't have such strange colouring, nor do they stand on two legs.

_It must have been a faery_, he reasoned. _One of the ones that had been following me_.

He sighed and looked down at his watch. It was nearing six o'clock in the evening, and he didn't fancy walking through the woods at night – no matter how safe it felt.

As he looked around the room again, the thought of leaving made his stomach twist unpleasantly. He wanted to stay here – at least for a little longer. It wasn't as if there was anything waiting for him back in London.

A crazy idea suddenly struck.

The small cottage was clearly abandoned. It wouldn't take much to claim the deed to the land, even though it was outside of London's borders. Few people were brave enough to live in the forest, but it wasn't unheard off. And all in all it shouldn't take much money to get it fixed up either – he had a job with a steady income and the remainder of his pension.

John felt light, and for the first time in months, excited about something.

He finally felt like he was awake. He felt like he was home.

**-SD-**

It only took a month for John to sort everything out. As he predicted, it was easy to get the deed to the property and it cost him even less than he originally thought it would. It took another month to properly turn the cottage into a suitable living area. His dwindling resources were put to good use as he hired some workmen to rebuild and repair. They were wary and often jumpy, being in the forest and all, but they didn't complain and they got the job done quickly and efficiently. The end result was better than he ever imagined; the outside was repainted a vibrant sky blue, and the roof was fixed and reset with dark grey tiles. Both doors were replaced, but out of some odd felling of sentiment John had the same word carved on the front door: _dùisign_. He still had no idea what it meant and vowed to look it up when he had to time.

The kitchen was remodelled with a modern design and appliances, not too expensive of course; the bathroom was fixed with better plumbing, and a shower replaced the bathtub. The master bedroom was cleaned and fixed up, now with a desk and book-case, while the other room remained empty, John reasoning that it could be used for storage mostly.

He could continue his dull job at the surgery easily – It turned out that the cottage wasn't too far from a road, as John had discovered the first night. There was a bus stop a ten minute walk away from the cottage, and a bus drove past every half-hour, and took forty or so minutes to reach London. That should tide him over until he has enough money saved up to buy a car, which would cut the journey down to at least twenty minutes.

John was happy with the turn his life had taken. Things just didn't seem so dull anymore – even his therapist said that he seemed better. Hell, even his limp didn't bother him as much and guilt no longer ate away at his every action.

But still… there was a nagging sensation that reminded him of those horrible silences. A tense anxiousness. Anticipation. But what exactly he was anticipating, John couldn't begin to guess.

**-SD-**

Meeting with Mike Stamford was purely by chance. John was on break from the clinic and his limp was acting up more than usual, so he stopped to rest briefly in the park near St Bart's. He didn't recognise the man at first – Mike had put on a great deal of weight since the last time John saw him – and they stopped and chatted for a few minutes.

It was somewhat awkward. Mike was one of the few people out of the military that knew John was gifted, and he could tell that the man struggled to hold back questions regarding his limp. John knew he wanted to know why he hadn't healed it, why it hurt in the first place. He thanked his luck that the man knew tact and when certain questions about John's life were unwelcome. Well, mostly - they talked about Harry, touched on her alcohol problems for a brief moment, before John quickly changed the subject.

Then came the offer. "Say, why don't you join me and the mates down at the pub tonight? It'd be a nice chance to get out and relax a little."

John hesitated. Since returning, he wasn't up for socialising and alcohol in any form just reminded him of Harry and the way she was steadily destroying her life. Alcoholism ran in his family, and John could easily see himself becoming like Harry.

Despite all of that he felt lonely. Strangely, moving into the cottage had helped a bit – still, it would be nice to get out and socialise a bit.

He agreed, and the mounting anticipation he had been feeling all this time intensified.


	2. Castàil - 2

**AN:** Chapter two down, one more to go before the next part of Spiral Dance is written up. Thank you for all of those who showed their support and I hope you like this chapter :D

**2**

Being in such a crowded area made John feel awkward. Back when he was a kid he was not the most socially adept person, and when he was a teenager and living with just Harry he stepped out of his shell a bit – he was fine with large crowds, and enjoyed hanging out with other people without fear of somehow losing control of his abilities. He made friends, dated, went to school and lived happily.

Then he joined the military, and went to war.

The army was, of course, full of people in similar predicaments to him. Some of the few Gifted were trying to hide their abilities while simultaneously trying to help. Some had nothing else to do with their lives and thought it better to spend whatever time they had left helping their country. Others were trying to run away.

John fit in well with those groups – they all identified with each other in same ways and camaraderie was forged, as so often happens when at war.

Now, back living a civilian life, John hadn't felt the urge to go to any social gatherings. Work was… well, work. And seeing his therapist didn't count. He honestly didn't know why he accepted Mike's offer to an outing at the pub. A large part of him regretted it; watching a group of drunkards made him think of Harry, and thinking of Harry just made him depressed. But a small, lonely part of him enjoyed it. Company wasn't by far hard to come by, but he had little to no friends that weren't in the military, so it was a blessing to meet Mike again.

The night began nicely – the company that Mike kept was pleasant and easy to be around, and the ex-army doctor found himself letting go. The discussions were meaningless and amusing, and as the night progressed, one of Mike's friends said, "Hey, have you heard of that new travelling performance group?"

There were denials all around the group, and John listened with curiosity.

Mike piped up, "What do you mean? I thought those didn't exist anymore."

"Of course they exist! They're not exactly common or anythin' nowadays but there are still people that do it. It's only been around for a month or so, and it's supposed to be kept like, hush-hush, know what I mean?"

"If it's supposed to be kept quite then how do _you_ know about it?"

"Because _I_ know people. And I was told it's not exactly legal either; rumours say that this particular company uses freaks to perform."

There were several scoffs around the table, and a lot of uncomprehending stares. The man speaking rolled his eyes and sighed, "You know, freaks? Gifted ones? And even a few of the forest monsters."

A cold feeling of dread, mixed with anger, grew in John's gut. Beside him, Mike threw him a timid glance, but John ignored him. He asked, "They're forced to perform?"

The man nodded, an ugly glint in his eye. It made John sick to remember that there were those in the world that viewed individuals that were able to use magic as lesser beings (_and really_, said a dark corner of his mind, _the humans are the lesser beings. They don't realise how easily they can be wiped out on nothing but a whim._) It made that dark part of him – the part that emerged in the heart of the Afghanistan battlefield – want to show him how _powerless_ regular humans are in the face of those that are Gifted.

He silenced it. The man was a civilian, and John was _not _a murderer. Not a _monster_.

"Why don't we go?" One of the others piped up. "They're near London, right?"

"Yeah," the first guy said. "What do you say guys, you up for it?"

There were nods and sounds of agreement from the rest of the group, and the man turned to John and Mike. "Well Mike? What do you say, John?"

Mike was pale and he kept throwing weary glances at John, and the ex-military doctor adopted a cold smile. "Sure," he said. "I'm up for it."

If only to see who exactly he needed to get arrested and to put a stop to.

**-SD-**

John didn't make an effort to remember any of their names. In his eyes they didn't deserve any recognition for going along with that idiotic man's suggestion. John knew that Mike was only going along to keep an eye on him; Mike was actually quite a compassionate man and normally wouldn't stand for it. It made the ex-military doctor wonder how he became friends with such a stupid lot.

They piled onto a bus that took them to the outskirts of London, worryingly close to the forest. It made him wonder how on earth they were getting away with using Gifted ones and creatures – the Ancient Ones would not stand for it, especially if it was happening so close to their territory.

John was going to find out why, how, and more importantly, stop it. With violence if he had to. Just the thought of people like him caged and forced to perform for the pleasure of an audience brought back horrible memories.

A part of him wished he'd brought his gun.

He could hardly feel the pain in his leg as he got off the bus, pausing a few meters away from the group. Mike wandered close to him and murmured, "what are you planning John?"

He gave Mike a reassuring smile, "Nothing definite. I just want to check things out."

They walked for a short distance, and the man who suggested they go lead them into the tree line. John was comforted by being in the forest again –_home –_ but he could not help feeling anxious. And angry. He wondered how this man knew, _exactly how_ to get to their destination. A large array of tents rested before them, colourful and in various shapes and sizes, with a booth in the front armed by a single person. As soon as John stepped closer, his nerves buzzed with power.

He realised just how this may have been possible.

_Witches_. John withheld a growl. Witches were human in every way, and unlike the Gifted - who were blessed at birth by one of the Ancient Ones - got their powers from the elements, symbols and incantations. They held no allegiance to anyone other than themselves; basically magical mercenaries. He'd had to fight against a lot of them during the war, and he was also on friendly terms with a few that he knew in the army. They weren't all evil and immoral; just like every other being in existence they had a balance that either tilted towards good or bad. They were almost as sought after as the Gifted were; to be a witch, one had to have the knowledge of numerous spells and enchantments and how they worked, and not everyone had the patience or skill. The only real downside to their abilities was that they didn't have much of an effect on the Gifted ones.

To be able to keep them ensnared, the witch had to be very, _very_ powerful. Or they had to have the help of something even _more_ powerful.

The anticipation that John was feeling returned at full force. As the group made its way to the booth, John kept a keen eye on the tents and the surrounding forest. The sound of music could be heard and there were people – visitors? Workers? – mulling around, moving from tent to tent. He wondered how many of them realised that they were committing a crime that was punishable by death. If an Ancient One were to come across this, John had no doubt that the entire company would be razed to the ground.

The man at the ticket booth made little conversation as the group payed for their tickets. John was grateful that it wasn't expensive, and as he handed the money over, their fingers brushed and he caught the man's eye. There was no remorse in his gaze, or anything that indicated he knew he was doing something wrong and regretted it, and John had to violently push down the urge to hurt him.

"Enjoy the show," The man smiled. John's returning smile was all teeth.

As the others piled in, the ex-army doctor made sure to remain behind the group. He waved Mike's concerns away, and when he was sure everyone was sufficiently distracted, slipped away.

The witch's magic conflicted with what naturally came from the forest, and John could clearly feel where each ward and seal began. His knowledge of witch-craft was slim, but enough to get by and to tell that the binding spells were extremely intricate. For a normal human or another witch, they would be difficult to break and take a lot of time, even with the proper tools. But John was Gifted, and his particular gift could break them in a matter of moments.

But not yet.

The first tent he went into he only stayed for a few seconds – it contained a tank full of murky water, and he could see a water nymph floating around with a desolate expression on her face. The next one he passed was larger, and had a red lamp lit outside it with the flap close. John had a faint idea what that tent was for, and feeling sick, peeked his head inside the flap. The lighting was dim, but there was a stage near the back and it was full of other people. Slow, sensual music was playing, and as John watched a scantily clad woman moved about, disrobing slowly. If John didn't know better, he'd say that she was human, but he could see the filed down stubs where her horns once were, and the bindings on her writs, neck, and ankles. Despite being beautiful, nearly awe-inspiring to watch, she looked haunted, hungry.

A succubus. They'd caught a demon.

It was worse than he'd originally thought.

The deeper he went into the mass of tents the more he saw and the more he was disgusted. A Gifted man who could tell the future, drugged out of his mind so that he spoke nothing but the truth. A siren that was made to sing and enchant the audience with a handler close by to stop her – brutally – if she decided to try and escape. A shape shifter, forced to shift into different animals.

His anger grew with each step. He was close to snapping, attacking the nearest person he saw; it didn't matter that he would be severely outnumbered, he just had to do _something._

A sound penetrated the haze of rage clouding him mind. It made him pause – a sweet, haunting melody that caused his muscles to relax and his eyes to close.

It was… familiar to him. Almost like he'd heard it before.

Unbidden, he followed the sound, realising vaguely that he was being drawn deeper and deeper into the tents. The other visitors became scarce, and soon, John was alone. The music got louder. It was almost sad, with an edge of loneliness and something that John was all too familiar with.

Anger.

Finally he reached the source – a tent that, logically, sound would not be able to escape. Without hesitation, he pushed the flap aside and entered.

It was dimly lit, and empty, save for the large cage in the centre, and the tall figure that stood, swaying as they played a violin.

John stood, mesmerised. The music hit him deeply, resonated with his very soul, and it was all he could do to remain standing and not fall into the dark, beckoning abyss that the music wove. He could easily lose himself in it; drift away until there was nothing left of him but his physical shell.

Before he could fall however, the music stopped. The ex-army doctor opened his eyes, feeling lost, and finally caught sight of the musician properly.

Truthfully he was unlike anything John had ever seen before. Large antlers sprouted from a head of black, curly hair, their points elegant and sharp. His furred, pointed ears twitched at the sound of John shifting his weight. The creature tilted its head to the side and watched John as closely as John watched it. Its eyes – stunning, mesmerising eyes – let off a faint glow, shifting between pale green, blue, and silver. It was tall and slender, and completely nude from what he could tell, a dark trail of fur obscuring its crotch and a short, furred tail just above the cleft of its arse. It was male, John concluded, lightly muscled, and covered in an array of dark markings that stood out starkly against snow-pale skin. There was a black collar around his neck, and manacles on his wrists and ankles, chaining him to the bottom of the cage.

He was… deer-like.

_Beautiful._

There was a soft snort of amusement that jolted John out of his trance, causing him to flush. The creature had placed his violin and bow on the ground and now stood in front of the bars, gripping them with black-nailed hands.

"You're the first visitor I've had in a while," the creature murmured in a low, deep voice. "I would say welcome and dutifully play you a little tune, but that would be complying with my captor's wishes – thus, boring." His lips tilted into a smirk. "I find it intriguing that you were able to find your way here. Why is that I wonder?"

John was unable to speak. There was something that was so _familiar_ about this creature, something that pulled at him, just as the music had. Hesitantly, he took a step forward and asked, "who… who are you?"

The creature's eyes brightened and his lip's spread into a wide smile. "Ah, _that question_!" He purred

"E-excuse me?" John stumbled.

"You asked me _who_ I am, as opposed to what any normal mortal would ask me: _What am I?_ The fact that you asked me _who _I am proves that you are no _ordinary_ mortal. An identity holds more power than a class of being. In a world of magic, names are everything. Before I answer who I am, let me ask you – _who are you_?"

John swallowed the sudden lump in his throat. Giving his name away to a creature of magic could be considered a very bad mistake – but this one was caged and by the look of it, whatever powers he had were sealed away. He sort of… wanted to tell him.

_Trust issues_, his therapist had said.

John sighed. "My name is John Watson."

The creatures smile grew a little softer, and he murmured, "John Watson…"

A shiver passed through the doctor's body.

"You can call me Sherlock. It's a pleasure to meet you John." The creature held out a hand through the bars – as far as it could reach with the manacles – in a very human gesture. Slowly, John held out his own hand and the creature – Sherlock – wrapped his marked fingers around it. It was very warm, his grip firm, and a tingle travelled up John's arm.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You were a soldier. You've fought in a war. Afghanistan or Iraq?"

Shocked, John tugged his hand from the firm grip and stuttered, "W-what? How did you know that?"

The creature grimaced in annoyance. "Your bearing – it simply screams military training, the same with your haircut. There's also the fact that you suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder, have a psychosomatic limp and gunshot wound on your left shoulder which makes it all the more obvious. You're tanned – only on your hands, face, and neck – the rest would have been covered by a uniform and gear. There are only two major conflicts happening in the world at the moment, which leaves two obvious choices: Afghanistan or Iraq. So which was it?"

"Afghanistan." John said faintly. "I'm sorry, but how do you know all that?"

"It's a simple matter of observation and carefully applied knowledge." Sherlock scoffed. He looked as if he was irritated that he had to explain himself.

"But how did you know about the gunshot wound?"

"Hmm, I felt it when I touched you." He said simply. "It's mostly healed, but sometimes troubles you; like when you move it too much, or the weather changes suddenly. You're Gifted with the ability to take and give, but for some reason you refused to heal yourself. Why is that? Pride? No, you may take pride in yourself and your actions but you wouldn't put yourself through necessary pain. Stubbornness? Most assuredly, but why? Guilt? Guilt for what? Ah…" The glow of his eyes seemed to brighten. "Guilt. You didn't heal yourself out of guilt. Someone died – probably a fellow soldier, most assuredly one under your command – and you blame yourself for not healing them in time. That was when you were shot. You chose not to heal yourself as penance. So definitely not pride."

Stunned, John stood there for a few moments, speechless. He felt laid bare, every one of his thoughts laid out in the open.

"You're now wondering how I knew you were Gifted. It's easy to tell that you were Blessed at birth, anyone with a trace of magic in their veins would be able to, and telling what your ability you have is as easy as smelling you – you reek of spring, freshness and life, but underneath that there's the deeply interwoven traces of winter, decay, and death. Life and death. The ability to heal, as well as the ability to take it all away – a truly formidable gift,"

The doctor's mouth gaped open and closed for a minute. He should feel violated and angry, outraged that his very being was so easily dissected, but all he could feel was awe. Finally, he gasped out, "that was amazing!"

Surprise flashed briefly across Sherlock's face. "Even your responses are extraordinary. That's not what others usually say."

Strange. "What do 'others' usually say?"

"It varies. Sometimes it's 'impossible'; lately it's been 'piss off'."

John gave a quiet laugh. "They must be very stupid to say that to the face of a magical being."

Sherlock shrugged. "Well, unless you have failed to observe, I am in a cage. That usually makes them feel brave, knowing that there's something between them and me. The fact that my magic is sealed is also a plus. But that doesn't matter anymore – I believe I scared everyone else off. Amazing what pointing out people's faults can do, even when you're locked up." His ear's twitched and he tilted his head to the side in curiosity. "You never answered me before. How did you get here?"

"I followed the music." The doctor said. "It was beautiful, by the way. I'd never heard anything like it before."

_But that's a lie. It seemed so familiar_. Just like everything about Sherlock seemed to be.

The creature looked very pleased at John's words. "Ah yes, the violin. It was a gift from my brother. If it were not such a useful tool I would have disposed of it by now. The morons who caught me assumed – and rightly so – that I could play it and now, it is my 'act'. The fact that you heard it – and wasn't driven mad by it – makes you so very… curious."

"What does that mean?"

Sherlock waved his hand in dismissal and paced away from the bars, causing the chains to rattle. He circled around the violin and bow once, clearly lost in thought, the glow of his eyes dim. He remained like that for minutes, and John began to get impatient.

"Well, if you won't answer that then at least tell me how you got captured." He grumbled.

The creature snapped to attention, that eerie, beautiful gaze once again fixed on the doctor and he strode back over to the bars. His lips were pulled down into a scowl as he answered, "They caught me off guard. Usually that would not have mattered, but they had a witch with them – a _very_ powerful witch." The scowl lifted into a smirk. "But no matter, I'm not going to be in here for much longer."

John frowned at the creatures knowing tone. "And why is that?"

Sherlock leaned forward, eyes boring into John's, and the words that rumbled from his mouth caused something to flutter in his stomach.

"Because you're going to let me out."

_Right then_.

"How did you come to that conclusion?" John cleared his throat nervously and leaned heavily on his cane.

"Because I can tell that you're a very noble man, John Watson. You don't like to see beings that you can relate to treated as slaves. When you heard of this _freak show_ you came to check it out and see what course of action you should take – whether you should act alone, or get help. Let me tell you that freeing me would be in your best interest."

John considered it. "But if this witch is so powerful then what makes you think that you can help?"

"I told you before that I was taken off guard." The deer-like creature's entire being seemed to radiate a dangerous aura. "That won't happen again."

The doctor didn't know what to make of that. What exactly was this creature? He was unlike any fae or spirit that he'd ever seen before. He wasn't human – a Gifted one or a witch. So what did that leave?

An Ancient One?

But that was impossible. A witch would never be able to capture a god and keep it restrained. Unless…

_Unless he allowed himself to be captured._

John looked at Sherlock in a new light. The collar and shackles were most likely designed to seal magic, but no matter how powerful the seals they wouldn't be able to supress the magic of a god. But a god _would_ be able to supress its _own_ magical power. It was possible that Sherlock was doing exactly that.

But the question was, why?

Despite his misgivings, John decided to play along. Everything could easily spiral into chaos, but he had a feeling that wouldn't be the case. Whatever happened, the doctor realised that this was what he had been waiting for after all this time.

He didn't know – couldn't even _begin_ to understand why.

He looked Sherlock dead in the eye. Agreeing with the creature would definitely be dangerous.

But John did so live for danger.

"I'll let you out." John said.

Sherlock's smile was victorious and frightening.


	3. Castàil - 3

**AN:** Whelp, it's done! The first part of Spiral Dance is now complete!

I'm reeeeally sorry for taking so long to update but I got sick a while ago and it lasted until now. I'm sorry if the beginning - or the entire thing really, is perceived as horrible, but it was written when I was sick. But I hope you enjoy it!

My thanks to everyone who has read this story! For updates and art and the like, check out my tumblr: link is on my profile.

**3**

_I must be out of my mind,_ John thought.

Sherlock's unnerving eyes tracked his every movement as the doctor moved closer to the cage, searching for the opening. The closer he looked, the more he noticed the faintly carved runes on the bars. There was no visible door, and the doctor came to the conclusion that he had to let the creature out in an unconventional way.

He took in a deep breath and wrapped a hand around one of the bars.

The effect was instant – the runes lit up with a bright light and they seemed to spark and sputter, before instantly fading away. The bar started flaking, cracking, and it spread out to the other bars. With a flick of his writs, John shattered it and kicked away a few others, leaving enough room for Sherlock to squeeze through. Only when John looked again, the creature was standing motionless.

"I'm still chained to the ground, if you're wondering why I'm not moving." He said dryly.

John cleared his throat. "Right." That meant he had to get closer to him, and the thought of being so close to him made the doctor wary. Sherlock held very still and made no sudden moments – as if _John_ was a shy animal that he was trying to coax forward. It left the doctor feeling faintly embarrassed, so he made quick work of surveying the chains. It would be more practical to break the actual bindings rather than the chain links.

Hesitantly, he reached out to the collar around Sherlock's neck, taking care not to accidently touch the snow-pale skin. Unlike the bars of the cage, there was an alarm written in with the binding spell, and John easily nullified it - the black metal flared white before crumbling, and John made quick work of the manacles. When the last binding fell away, the doctor backed up out of the cage with quick, jerky movements, and Sherlock merely gave him a bemused smile.

The creature's attention was diverted to his violin, which he scooped up off the ground and brandished the bow like a sword. He ran it over the strings in a succession of quick, jerky movements, causing the violin to screech and the creature's smile to widen.

"Excellent," he murmured before striding gracefully from the cage. He rounded on John and the doctor suddenly found himself crowded against the canvas wall of the tent, the creature leaning in uncomfortably close. His breath hitched.

"Personal space," John muttered, but was ignored.

Sherlock seemed to radiate a heat that seeped into John's very bones, causing every muscle to relax and the distant pain of his leg and shoulder be forgotten completely. He could feel the powerful aura surrounding the creature, and there was no doubt in John's mind that he was no mere faery or spirit.

He was a god. An Ancient One, whose territory was most probably the very forest that John called home. The forest that dominated the majority of England.

_What the hell is he up to?_

Sherlock's nostril's flared as he inhaled deeply. He leaned in closer until his cheek was pressed against John's, a furred ear suddenly obscuring his vision. The god chuckled, causing John to squirm, before he murmured, "Find the witch, and then call the human police force."

"What? Why?" Against his instincts – which told John to remain very, _very_ still – the doctor pushed against Sherlock, who acquiesced and moved back a few paces.

The horned god tilted his head and smirked; he swept into a bow that was bordering on mocking, and said clearly, "Thank you for being such a wonderful audience. I would play a little longer but the interlude is now over. It's time for the main performance, and now, my dear John, the game is afoot."

Then he was gone. Disappeared, out of thin air.

John struggled to catch his breath, trying to figure out what just happened. It wasn't every day that one encountered an Ancient One and survived with sanity and body intact. The doctor had no idea what he was supposed to do next – did he find the witch and incapacitate them, like Sherlock asked? Or should he simply call the police and let them deal with this? If he followed the first option, then he would need his gun, which was sitting in the bottom draw of his bedside table, back at his cottage. There was no way he would go up against a witch without something other than his abilities to defend himself – he needed to be close to use them, and most witches could kill their opponents before they even thought about getting close.

A thud disrupted his thoughts.

Cool metal gleamed in the lamp-light, and somehow, John wasn't surprised to see his pistol lying innocently on the ground. Upon picking it, he found that it was fully loaded and operational.

That… was just a little too convenient.

Just another thing that the doctor was going to have to allow to slip from his mind. It looked like he was going to stop a witch.

_Lovely. I thought I left all of this behind me._

-SD-

The first thing John needed to do was _find_ the witch. Anyone who had been in contact with magic for a long period of time would develop a taste for it, and could sense it easily if they concentrated hard enough. The witch's spells were powerful, easy to sense, so when John left Sherlock's tent, he closed his eyes and stretched out his senses.

Every spell, every ward that kept the magical creatures bound was linked by a string of magic. It was all connected, like a web, and at the very centre was the witch, controlling it all. There were still remnants of the spell surrounding Sherlock's tent, and John latched onto them.

Realistically, the freak show wasn't that big, but to John it felt like ages, following the fading string. It led him deeper and deeper into the mass of tents, until John came across one that had a very helpful sign out the front – central administration.

_Call your police_.

John fingered his mobile and licked his lips. He fished it out and quickly dialled a number.

Mike Stamford's voice sounded after the fourth ring. "Hello?"

"I need you to get out of here. Tell everyone you can to get out – they won't want to be around here for any longer."

"I thought you said you weren't planning anything?" Mike's voice was timid.

"I said I had nothing definite planned. Now I do. Are you going to do as I ask?"

He heard the teacher give a shaky sigh. "Alright. But please don't get yourself hurt."

John grinned, "If I do I could always just heal myself."

"Yeah, but if you die you can't."

_It wasn't going to come to that._

"Just get everyone out. Quickly."

As soon as he'd hung up he dialled the emergency service. He gave some vague reason for calling before being patched through to Scotland Yard.

Before the person on the other line could speak, John began. "There is an illegal freak show settled a few miles outside of London. They have several magical creatures held captive – dangerous creatures, and there's a witch keeping them all bound. I suggest you get here before things get out of control."

He hung up and shoved the phone back into his pocket. There was no use telling them exactly where he was, they'd be able to track the call, and it would give him enough time to dispose of the witch. He pulled the gun out of the waistband of his pants and turned off the safety.

He was about to enter when something stopped him.

"Wait." A deep voice purred by his ear. Heat pressed up against his back and Sherlock's hand closed around his wrist, lowering the gun to the ground.

"What are you doing?" John hissed. He couldn't turn around to look at the god.

"Stopping you from getting yourself killed." He murmured in response. The hand around his wrist tightened. "Though the witch is in there, there are others as well – normal humans, by themselves they pose little threat, but they are armed."

The doctor sighed, "Then what do you propose I do?"

"What you need is a distraction. Close your eyes John, and tell me what you see."

Frowning, he complied. "I see the web that connects the witch's spells. It's easy to see, nothing new. Kids' stuff."

"That it is," Sherlock chuckled. "Now, what is the spell made up of?"

"Runes and glyphs, mathematical equations, invisible to the naked eye. Spiritual and natural energy."

"And what are they all for?"

"They're all wards to keep all of the creatures in. There's an alarm interwoven into it."

"Correct. And what did you do to the ones binding me?"

"I broke them. You mean you want me to… You want to break all of the wards? But if I do that then – then we'd have a massacre on our hands."

He could feel Sherlock's frustrated sigh on the back of his neck, and it caused all of his hair to stand on end. "No, we won't. Most of them would run given the chance, and I will deal with the others. This will serve as a suitable distraction, and while the others run to try and contain the creatures, the witch will be left alone."

"Well why don't you do it?"

The god huffed. "Don't be ridiculous John; I can't do everything by myself."

The heat disappeared, and once again John was left alone.

_Why do I feel like I'm being tested for something?_

Because he probably was. John rubbed his face and closed his eyes again, seeking out the web. Without a single attempt at delicacy, unlike with the breaking of Sherlock's bonds, John reached out, grabbed all the threads he could, and yanked. _Hard._

A loud screeching filled the air and the tent flaps burst open, a group of people piled out looking very panicked. Orders were shouted and they split up, running off in different directions and completely ignoring John. The sound of screams reached his ears, over the sound of that horrid screeching alarm, and the doctor wondered whether Sherlock was actually dealing with the creatures who sought… revenge against their captors.

_I certainly wouldn't blame them. They have every right._

Bracing himself, gun gripped tightly, John slipped into the tent.

There were three people left – two men and a woman. The woman was pacing, a rifle gripped tightly in her hands, while the men sat at the table. One was obviously a guard like the woman, and the other was significantly older and – small, unassuming. Pale and clearly in pain.

The witch.

They hadn't noticed his arrival, and John was grateful for that, but suspicious. A truly powerful witch would have been able to sense his presence; but he supposed having such an intricate spell torn apart under your power would be draining.

Swiftly, without giving second thoughts a chance to take root in his mind, he aimed the gun at the woman and fired, then did the same for the young man a split second after. The witch jumped to his feet, startled and stammering, but stopped all motion when John aimed the gun at him.

"Please don't hurt me!" he gasped. "I played no part in this."

John scoffed. "Funny words coming from the mouth of a witch. I suppose the web of spells surrounding you have no part to play in this either?"

The witch's scared demeanour dropped and his face grew blank. "You're a Gifted one then. Definitely not a witch because they would have been able to drop me without even seeing me. Not a normal human, because they wouldn't have been able to find me at all."

"Maybe I had help." John supplied. His hand held the gun steady, his face just as impassive as the witch's.

"Maybe. But I highly doubt that. If you had help, then why did you show up alone? That's right stupidity."

John smiled coldly. "Stupidity. Do you have that much confidence about your abilities? I snapped your binding spells as easily as if they were made of thread."

The witch mirrored his smile. "There, _not human_. You practically admitted it just then. So what's your Gift? If it was something you could use against me you wouldn't have a gun."

"Perhaps I just don't want to make a mess."

"Oh yes, and you can avoid that by shooting someone then?"

"I wasn't talking about a physical mess."

"Then you don't want to make it seem like someone with magic killed me then? Don't want people to know what you are, huh?"

"Close."

"You're easy to read."

"And you're easy to trace. We all have our fall-backs."

"Mmm I like you." The witch purred. It was rather disturbing. "You're here to kill me, and just maybe you might. But I doubt it. Can you pull the trigger faster than I can put up a shield?"

John's finger on the trigger tightened. "We'll just have to see then won't we?"

They held eye contact for a full minute, neither of them daring to breath. Something changed in the witch's gaze, a flicker of panic, and his arms flew up, just as John fired. The bullet hit an energy shield and sizzled away into nothing, and John cursed. The witch's lips moved to an inaudible chant, and John realised he had no choice.

He had to reach the witch before he completed the chant, or he was as good as dead.

The gun fell from his slack grip as the doctor darted forward. The witch didn't count on a frontal assault and his chant faltered, before starting up again. John's fingers touched the energy shield, disintegrating it before it had the chance to repel him. The witch's chant spluttered to a halt and his eyes widened in shock and fear. He stumbled away, but John's hand caught his arm and dragged him forward until they were face to face.

The witch was only an inch or so taller than the doctor – it gave John a good view to all of the emotions that played across his features. He struggled against John's grip, but the doctor made sure to hold him with his good arm, while he tugged down the sleeve of the witch's jacket with the other. The moment their bare skin touched, all struggle ceased. The warm skin beneath his palm grew icy and brittle, turning black.

"Wh-what are you doing to me?!"

John's expression remained impassive even as he tightened his grip. Black veins and dead skin spread, causing the limb to wither away before his very eyes. The witch's trembling hand became clawed and rigid, and the effect spread up his arm. The witch's eyes were filled with desperation and fear, and John couldn't find it within him to feel a modicum of repentance. The rot spread up the witch's neck, and he coughed up a globule of blood.

It stained John's jumper, but he paid it in no mind.

"Please, stop! Please!"

The dark part of John's mind wanted to smirk and laugh at the man's terror, to point out that the witch was only getting what he deserved, but he held it at bay.

The witch's eyes grew foggy and his face turned slack, just as the rot hit his brain. All struggle ceased and he became limp, and the doctor allowed him to fall to the ground. What remained of the witch's wards disintegrated into nothing and the air cleared – all just in time for the sound of screams to become disturbingly loud.

John was pretty sure that there were no more visitors, but there were plenty of workers for the large _angry_ magical creatures.

"Nice job. The police are on their way." Sherlock's deep baritone rumbled beside him, causing John to shiver. "Just as slow as ever. I suggest you at least attempt to save some of the workers."

"I thought you were going to take care of the creatures!" the doctor growled and turned to glare at the god.

There was no-one there.

_Che, of course_. Leave it to him to stop a bunch of angry monsters from tearing their captors several new ones.

But over the sound of screams and snarls he could hear sirens, getting louder and louder as the seconds pass. It wouldn't do well for a bunch of human policemen walked into a massacre. But really, what could he do? He was a soldier who could only heal and kill by touch. He sincerely doubted he could get close to a monster that was blinded by rage.

Suddenly, the noise died down, and John realised what Sherlock actually _was _doing something. Sherlock had said 'attempt to save' – so then... John exited the main tent and saw the battlefield he thought he'd left behind in Afghanistan. Humans – either dead or unconscious were scattered across the ground, not always in one piece.

Sherlock expected him to heal those still alive. Wonderful.

He wondered how many people were actually employed by the freak show. And why there was only one witch doing all of the spell work – a witch that wasn't as powerful as he'd first thought. It was like he'd gotten help.

He needed to speak to Sherlock. If only he could get the bloody god to stay still in one spot for more than two minutes.

-SD-

The police arrived around ten minutes later, just as John had finished healing the last of the workers that were left alive. The healing took a lot out of both parties, so John didn't have to worry about any of them trying to make a run for it – they remained unconscious. Tired and drained, the doctor staggered to his feet to meet with the police. There was some confusion and accusations which John immediately denied and after a tiresome amount of minutes he was deposited in front of the officer in charge.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was a tall, well-built man, and the moment John laid eyes on him he could sense that he was Gifted.

The DI sensed it too. Like called to like, and John felt a sliver of fear.

He was going to be called out. When they find the body of the witch there is going to be hell to pay.

But Lestrade kept his mouth shut, made no mention of it and never deviated from the usual questions, and it left John feeling confused. John gave his account of the night – heavily edited of any mention of his abilities, and woven to make him simply appear as a good Samaritan who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and Lestrade accepted it all as if it was face value.

_What is going on?_

When things began to settle down – there were no more creatures loitering around and the dead and unconscious had been collected – John was being checked over by the paramedics when Lestrade found him.

"He was here, wasn't he?"

John frowned. "Who was?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

The doctor felt his heart skip a beat. _Sherlock Holmes. That's what he calls himself?_ "You… you know him?" He asked weakly.

"Of course I know him!" Lestrade spluttered. "Between him and his bloody brother it's a wonder that Scotland Yard has any say in the matter of the Other creatures and the mess that's made when humans get involved. He works with us occasionally. Well, I say 'with' us." The DI's sharp eyes locked with Johns. "How did you get caught up in all this? Barely ten minutes before we got the call to move in I got a message from him saying 'do not blow John Watson's cover', and that was it. You don't just go and not do what he says either, or he'd make life even more difficult. So what's up? How'd you really get involved?"

John's mouth opened and closed but no sound escaped. Really, what was he supposed to say? he hadn't the faintest idea what was going on in the first place.

"I think that's enough, Detective Inspector Lestrade." A cultured voice interrupted them. "I think the good doctor has had quite the information overload."

John looked up to see a tall, auburn haired man standing before him, dressed in an expensive suit and leaning his weight casually on an umbrella. Lestrade practically leapt to his feet, his expression warring between anger, irritation, and a little dose of awe.

"What are you doing here?" he grumbled. "You can't just wander onto a crime scene-"

"Don't be silly Detective Inspector, you know that I can." The man cut in casually. "Now if you would be so kind, I need a moment alone with Doctor Watson."

Lestrade looked torn, wavering between acquiescence and outright denying him, but in the end he gave a parting nod to John, turned on his heel, and strode away.

John was left alone with the man.

"You seem to have had an exciting night, doctor." The man said. "One would think that it would end with a man in shock, but you are a soldier after all. You're used to this kind of thing."

"Who are you?' John said shortly.

The man's smile was benign. "An interested party. One that wishes to know how you came into the graces of Sherlock Holmes."

Something about this man rubbed John in all the wrong ways. The aura around him was something that John couldn't quiet place. Familiar in a way, definitely not human, but completely unidentifiable.

"I helped him out of a cage." John said. "That's all."

"Is it really?" He mused. "It's clearly more than that, yet you're unwilling to tell. He gave you something tonight, didn't he?"

John scowled. "I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do." The man took a step closer, and John was immediately hit with a wave of power. His nerves went haywire and his mind screamed, _Ancient One, Ancient One, Ancient One_, but he forced himself to remain still. He raised his chin and refused to break eye-contact with the now identified god.

The god didn't take it as a challenge. If anything, he looked pleased, his smile gaining an almost animalistic edge.

"He gave you the battlefield once again." He murmured. "You gained your awareness when you moved closer to magic, but you regained your _soul_ tonight. How interesting."

"What do you want?" John spat out again through grit teeth.

"I want you to keep an eye on Sherlock Holmes. I know for a fact that you _will _be seeing him again."

"And why should I?"

"Well, I'll give you compensation of course. But other than that, I worry about him. _Constantly_."

John pursed his lips. Mulled it over. Said, "Sorry, but no."

The god didn't show any expression other than the smile, which didn't change. "Consider it, at least. I'll have my people take you home. I'll be in touch."

A woman suddenly appeared by John's side, startling him. She didn't even look up from where she was typing away on her phone as she said, "Follow me, please."

The doctor threw one more glance at the still smiling god – knowing that he was going to get nothing more from him – before following the woman.

-SD-

She really was quiet attractive. Any other time, John would have asked her out, but the night's events were catching up on him, now that he was finally sitting down. The car was nice, obviously very expensive, and John wondered just who the god was. He got nothing out of the woman either – other than her name, Anthea, and that was clearly fake. He was dropped off on the side of the road and made to walk the ten minutes to his house in the dark.

It wasn't like he was scared of the forest – in fact, as he walked he saw numerous darting lights along the path – fae and sprites, dancing to the hum of the magic the forest was made off. John had no trouble seeing where he was going. When he was finally upon his cottage, weariness sunk deep into his bones, and his leg ached. His cane had disappeared at some point during the night, and now he wished he had it more than ever.

The word _dùisign_ greeted him at the door and once again he wondered at it. Maybe tomorrow he'd look it up.

He closed the door behind him and hung up his coat on the rack, then peeled off his bloodstained jumper, leaving him in a simple button-up shirt. Eyes half closed, he walked through the lounge room and into the kitchen, craving a nice cup of tea before heading to bed.

"You're out of milk."

John swore and stomped back into the lounge-room, somehow unsurprised to see Sherlock lounging on the couch, cradling a mug in his hands and idly flipping through a magazine on the coffee table.

"What are you doing here?" He growled – weakly. He was too tired to deal with this shit.

Instantly, he noticed the changes in Sherlock's appearance. The hearth had been lit, and fire-light gleamed of the pieces of metal that now decorated the god's body – his horns were positively wrapped in them, his ears pierced with several studs and hoops, and around his neck and wrists was a torc and matching bracelets – mimicking the collar and shackles, of all things. A dark blue scarf hung loose off of his shoulders and down to his thighs – which drew John's attention to the lower half of his body. Where once there were human legs, they now resembled the hind-quarters of a deer and were covered in sleek black fur, with golem metal bands just above the hooves. His eyes followed the curl of a long black tail that trailed under the coffee table and appeared on the other side in a tuft of black fur.

"You're hesitating," Sherlock remarked. "My appearance has put you off. My apologies. I find this form more comforting than the limbo point."

"Huh? Limbo point? What, no, it's not that. I want to know what the bloody hell you're doing in my house!"

"This is my forest," Sherlock sipped at what John guessed was tea, and didn't even deign to look up. "So technically, this is my house. I'm allowed inside my own house."

"You can't do that." John protested tiredly. He sighed and scrubbed a hand over his face. "You know what – whatever, I don't care. I'm going to bed. Don't make a mess."

He was about to turn around and make his way up the stairs when the god finally looked up. His piercing eyes bore into John for a moment, before he seemingly came to a decision, placed the mug down, stood up and _on top of his bloody coffee table_ and made his way over to John. He was even taller like this, even more imposing, but John stood his ground.

"What?" He demanded.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side. "You are a very intriguing being John. You did well tonight – better than I ever expected."

"You make it sound like you were testing me."

The god smiled. "I was. I've been watching you since you stepped foot into my forest John, and tonight was a test to see whether or not you were worthy enough to stay here."

"You mean you orchestrated that entire fiasco to test me?" John hissed, anger bubbling inside his gut.

"Of course no, don't be stupid." Sherlock scoffed. "I'd been working on that case for week or so already, you just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I allowed myself to be captured so I could destroy them from the inside, but the plan changed when you arrived. It couldn't have played out any better."

_Bloody hell. The bastard manipulated the entire thing._

John forced himself to take a deep breath, and he managed to bite out, "Who are you?"

Sherlock smiled. "You already know who I am. Come now John, I know you're smarter than that – you figured it out practically from the beginning. I am an Ancient One, guardian of this forest, and these days I am known as one of the Triad. The name I go by in the human world is Sherlock Holmes, and occasionally I help the human police when they screw up and prove how incompetent they are – which is always. I play the violin at random hours and sometimes I don't talk for days on end – would that bother you?"

"Why are you telling me this?" the doctor murmured.

"Why? Because I'm staying here from now on and potential housemates should always know of each other, correct? Or have human rituals changed in the past few hours that we've known each other?"

"But we don't know each other!"

"Don't we, John?" Sherlock murmured. He took another step closer until John was crowded against the door-frame. "When you got back from Afghanistan, you were drifting in a sea of emptiness. You were asleep, unaware of the world and life going on around you. Then something called to you – this, _my forest_, called to you, and suddenly, you woke up. That word on the cottage door, _dùisign_, do you know what it means? Awaken. And you did. And tonight, you found your sense of purpose again, didn't you?

"You're not even using your cane anymore. Being here, being around me, gives you purpose. You're awake. You're alive. Why would you want to live any differently?"

John was having trouble breathing. He really couldn't find any fault in the god's words, and there was a part of him – that same part that revealed itself since the very beginning – that knew this god. Remembered him. Found comfort in him.

Wanted him.

"What do you want from me?" John whispered.

Sherlock's eyes softened and he finally took a step back. "I want you, John. You, just as you are. A companion. A friend. Is that too much to ask?"

His breath was finally returning to its normal pace. He remained quiet for a long minute, thinking hard. Finally, he sighed. "Alright. Fine. It's all fine. You can stay. But you're staying on the couch until I get the second room cleared out. And you're pulling your own weight. And tomorrow, you're telling me everything. Got that?"

Sherlock's smile was blinding. John had never seen a more beautiful sight.

Gods know what he just agreed to. For all he knew, John had just made the worst decision of his life – but somehow, he just didn't think that was the case. He realised that with Sherlock around, things would never be the same.

_And that's a good thing. Right?_

Another sigh left the doctors lips. At least he now knew what that bloody word meant.

-SD-

**AN: **So there we have it folks. I'll update this story with a notice when the next story is done, so stay tuned ;)

Gaelic words used in this fic:

**Castàil - **Meeting

**dùisign - **Wake, awaken

For the record, Spiral Dance as a whole has four planned stories:

1. Castàil

2. Athrù

3. Beltane

4. Dia, Diabhal


	4. Athrù - 1

**AN:** Ok guys, I know I said I would upload the second part of Spiral Dance in new story, but I decided that it would be a lot easier to just rename this entire story Spiral Dance, and post all of the parts here in order. So, without further distractions, I present to you the second part of Spiral Dance and sequel to Castàil, Athrù.

I hope you enjoy! Read and Review!

-SD-

Again, John wondered how he found himself in situations like this. His luck had seemed to escalate ever since Sherlock had inserted himself in John's new home, and things had been relatively peaceful – well, as peaceful as having an ancient god as a housemate could be. But Sherlock didn't bother him much, save for invading his personal space and disappearing for sometimes days on end, and returning with the strangest demands.

This morning, John had woken with the Ancient One crouching by his bedside and staring at him. John was understandably disturbed, and upon demanding what Sherlock thought he was doing, the horned god simply blinked glowing eyes innocently and shoved something cold and hard in his hands.

"Wear this," Sherlock ordered. "Wear it at all times."

He was gone from the room in the blink of an eye, his stuffed tail disappearing around corner of the door the only visual evidence that he was there.

Frowning, John studied the object in his hands. He discovered it was a simple chain-link bracelet, with runes too small and intricate to see carved into the surface. _A protection charm, _he felt, and was somewhat insulted. He could very well defend himself – he was a war veteran for heaven's sake, and was Gifted to boot.

He studied it for a few more minutes, before realising that the morning was passing him by, and if he didn't hurry then he would be late for work.

The bracelet ended up on his bedside table, forgotten.

_But,_ John reflected, he really should have put it on. Then he wouldn't be in his current situation.

As he stared into the gleaming eyes of the witch, the doctor's vision flashed and then there was nothing.

He really hated witches. It was just his luck that he ran into Irene Adler.

**- Athrù -**

Part 1

Of all the times for him to run into a witch, it had to be during his lunch break.

It was a quiet day at the surgery and Sarah had everything running smoothly, so John was free to get some fresh air and something to eat. There were a few small café's around but nothing really called to his attention, so he wandered with no real destination in mind. Just as his nose caught the heavenly sent of freshly baked bread, something tingled on the edge of his senses.

He was instantly on alert.

The city of London was riddled with Magic workers so it wasn't much of a surprise to sense a dozen or so at once – but _this_ one had power. Real power, without the aid of any charms, as far as John could tell. Usually those with power stayed close to the city centre, away from the 'common folk' where they lavished in their wealth. Someone in this kind of district could not be up to any good.

Against his better judgement, John began walking towards the presence.

It was a lot closer than he'd originally thought, and suddenly – he crashed into it.

It turned out to be a woman actually – one he recognised by sight straight away.

Irene Adler was, simply put, a witch – one of the most powerful in England, and highly sought after. She worked in several different magical categories, one of the most prominent being sex magic. She was well known as a dominatrix, and was said to be powerful enough to keep even a god under her thumb.

She was very strong. Which was why it felt like he walked into a brick wall and was sent tumbling to the ground when he ran into her.

Her laugh was soft and mocking, and it made an irritated sort of anger rise in the doctor. When he finally straightened himself up, he took in her appearance, his skin crawling at the amount of magic he felt from her aura.

She was beautiful, certainly. Her slim, curved figured was wrapped in a form-fitting black coat with a white furred hood, the collar open at her throat to show a pentagram pendant and a tantalising glance of cleavage. Her long, dark hair was pulled into a simple, yet elegant bun, leaving her fringe to frame her beautiful face.

But it was her blue eyes and the curve of her painted red lips that gave away her true nature – something manipulative and cruel lurked under the appealing exterior. It set every nerve in John's body on edge.

"You really should watch where you're walking," were her first words. There was no apology – not that he'd really been expecting one, but it still made him bristle.

"My apologies," John said through clenched teeth and a stiff smile. "I'm in a rush you see, have to get back to work."

"Well don't let me stop you." Irene made no move to get out of his way. The next words out of her caused him to pale. "A Gifted man such as yourself must have a very important job then, to be in such a rush."

Pursing his lips, the doctor replied, "And a witch such as yourself must be on very important business, to be in such an esteemed area, no?"

Her lips pulled into a dangerous smile, showing even, white teeth. "You could say that. It seems we have come to an impasse, Gifted one."

_Bloody witches and their bloody self-righteous arrogance._

"I wouldn't say that. If you let me pass I can be on my way and you'll never have to see me again."

"Oh but you were very rude just now. Barrelling into a defenceless woman and then being so curt with her? My my, that's grounds for retribution isn't it? Or at least a warning."

"Your warning was loud and clear," John struggled to keep his voice steady. "It was an accident and I apologised, now please, let me pass."

She seemed to consider it for a moment. "I think not."

Out of the corner of his eye, John noticed the witch's finger twitch, and suddenly, he found himself unable to move. Panic shot through him, and John realised that whatever chance he'd had to fight back was now long past. The bindings were so strong, and he couldn't get his Gift to do his will no matter how much he struggled. There were no runes or words spoken, only pure power.

_Fuck!_

"I dislike rude people." Irene continued. "Especially those who should know better. Even if they are Gifted. Just remember, my good man, that you've gotten off lightly."

Her eyes started glowing with an inner light, and the next word the left her mouth was laden with power.

"_Athrù."_

A burning erupted in the doctor's chest, and it was all that he could do not to scream.

-SD-

Awareness came slowly, and with it, a splitting headache. The noise made it even worse – the sound that only came from the most crowded of city centres; tires scraping across asphalt and car horns blearing, the amplified murmur of human voices ebbing and flowing like a tide. He smelt something akin to rotten garbage and ash

John was aware that something was very, _very _wrong.

He tried to open his eyes and immediately shut them against the bright light, letting out a hiss as it made his head throb. Everything was enhanced, everything felt wrong, and as John struggled to gain his bearings, he realised what exactly was off.

His eyes flew open in shock. He stared down at the pavement that was much too close to his face.

A squeak left his throat. He tried shifting his arms and got tangled in an excess of skin and limbs. He stared down at his hands, the long claws and the dark brown, leather skin.

_Fuck. FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK!_

This couldn't be happening.

There was just no way in hell.

The witch had cast a freaking spell on him.

_The witch cast a fucking spell on me._

_Fuck!_

_What the hell do I do?!_

-SD-

Somewhere deep within the ancient forest, well away from London, glowing eyes blinked open. An itch echoed in the back of his head, and Sherlock yawned and shook his head to clear the last remnants of sleep. The loose metal in his horns jingled at the movement, and the god gracefully rose to his feet, long tail absently swishing behind him.

It took a moment to register what the itch in his head was, his mental abilities dulled by his short nap, and when he did, he froze.

A deep growl rumbled from the Ancient One's chest, and all sounds of nature around him fell silent. Even the rustling of the trees stopped.

_Something happened to John._


	5. Athrù - 2

AN: Sorry for the length and lack of replies to reviews, but I'm happy you all enjoy this story! The chapter is short for the sake of my sanity, and there should be two more chapters left of this arc.

**Athrù**

**Part 2**

Everything was too big.

John struggled to regain his bearings. He forced himself to his feet – only to be overbalanced, and fell forward onto his wings. His ears pressed flat against his skull and a high-pitched whine left his throat.

He had to get out of here. He had to get under some form of cover.

Flying was the last thing on his mind and he used the claws on his wings to steady himself and crawl towards the edge of the building. The ground was absolutely filthy, and the nearest cover was a dumpster; the Gifted human – now turned bat – aimed towards that.

Curses ran through his mind; he berated himself for being taken by surprise like that. He should never have expected to be left alone by a witch, let alone one like Irene Adler - she was the strongest witch in London. The question was, why would she go out of her way to cast a spell on John?

Why him? He hadn't done anything noticeable or important. He's never achieved anything great. The government as a whole wasn't aware of him.

_Does… Does it have something to do with Sherlock?_

Honestly it wouldn't surprise John. A god takes interest in a lowly gifted mortal and what? Suddenly that makes him bait for the magical community as a whole? That wasn't fair!

_What am I going to do?_

He's fought lots of witches in the past, has had spells cast on him, but never before has he been turned into an _animal_.

_And why a bat, of all things?_

He was so indulged in his momentary self-pity, he at first didn't notice the atmosphere change. The air grew heavy and hot, sparking with a recognisable magic. A squeak came from him when a hoofed foot filled his vision. It caused him to back-peddle wildly and he ended up sprawled on his back. It was highly uncomfortable, and amidst the panic and fear, he managed to look up.

Lean, strong black legs, covered in velvet fur gave way to snow-pale skin, mottled with black and grey markings. Glowing green eyes stared down at him in surprise.

"John?" Sherlock mused. Those eyes narrowed and it made John feel like piece of meat – that was the stare of a predator – an angry, hungry predator. Every newly awakened instinct inside John screamed at him to run, but he forced himself not to. This was Sherlock, and truly, he should be grateful that the God showed up.

But that raised the question – how the hell did he know? How did he know where he was?

Then there was the fact that they were both out on a public street, and there were people – not many, but still a fair number – walking about.

The God stood there, long tail swishing back and forth in irritation and horned head lowered to stare at the small, trembling bat. His jewellery gleamed in the sunlight, and his scarf fluttered in a faint breeze.

It was a majestic image, truly. In any other circumstance, John would have admired it, but all he could do was shake.

Before he could so much as blink, the God reached down and plucked him from the ground with clawed hands. He had to force himself not to struggle as he was brought close to the god's face – more importantly, that fanged mouth. Of course he knew Sherlock wouldn't eat him; even though Sherlock stuffed his mouth with anything that resembled food, he wouldn't eat a living creature raw.

_Would he?_

"You didn't wear the bracelet," he growled. His voice sounded a lot deeper and more dangerous than usual. "I told you to wear the bracelet. It was warded against most magic, so why didn't you wear it?"

_Well tough luck Sherlock, I can't exactly answer that right now._ The bat glared back at Sherlock, hoping to convey his thoughts since he didn't have the vocal cords to speak back at him. The God blinked back, an unknown gleam in his eye.

_Did you foresee this happening? _John wondered. _Was that why you gave me that enchanted bracelet? _

The God brought him even closer to his face and inhaled, and it caused John to let out a small shriek. "I recognise this magic," he murmured, expression darkening. "What was she doing here…?"

It was almost like he was talking to himself, and John felt a little bit insulted. Instead of standing in the middle of the street in broad daylight, shouldn't they go somewhere a little less open? The bat twisted in the God's grip, surveying the street with squinted eyes. The bright light made them hurt, and John could only be thankful that he could see normally. The people passing through the street didn't even bat an eyelid in their direction. John figured that maybe Sherlock was concealing their presence, and berated himself for over-reacting. Of course the God wouldn't show himself so plainly to the public.

_What am I thinking? Of course he would. If the circumstances were different he wouldn't give a damn if other people saw him._

The God let out an angry snort, and it drew John's attention to the expression on his face. It had darkened; he looked positively murderous.

"I can't reverse the spell," he spat. "It would only harm you. Only the witch who cast the spell can reverse it without hurting you." His grip tightened a fraction and John squeaked. He'd never seen the God this bent out of shape, and he wondered what this would mean for Irene. Better yet, how was he going to tell Sherlock who the witch was? He couldn't speak for Christ's sake.

But he'd mentioned before… he'd recognised the traces of magic, so did that mean he knows Irene?

_Probably. Who knows how long he's been around. He's an Ancient One; that's got to mean he's been around for thousands of years. Irene's the most powerful witch in England, they're bound to have met before. But what was their past relationship like? What must have happened for him to dislike her, and for her to go out of her way to attack me? What's going to happen now?_

John dug the claws of his feet into Sherlock's hand, drawing the God's attention on him once again. A dark brow was raised in question, and the bat bared sharp teeth up at him. John willed him to understand, and slowly, an amused smirk crossed the God's lips.

He was jostled suddenly, and shrieked loudly as Sherlock's grip tightened. It felt like he was being pulled through a small opening, and all of the air was being crushed from his lungs. His vision flashed white, and then black, before suddenly he could see clearly.

He was back home. In the living room to be more precise.

Shocked, the bat struggled in Sherlock's grip, and was shaken slightly in protest. "Don't do that," Sherlock scolded. Slowly, he was lowered onto the messy coffee table, where he tried to stand – and after failing, sat on his haunches. Now that he had space to breathe properly, he shook himself, still not used to his body's changes. _Hell, like I would ever get used to this._

Sherlock shifted, drawing John's attention once more, and the bat froze. A soft glow emanated from the Ancient One's body, and right in front of John's eyes he began to change. White and black gave way to a pale peach. His bestial lower form disappeared, leaving smooth human legs and feet, his tail disappearing completely. He shook his head, and the horns looked like they receded into his skull – and wait, _what the hell?_

He looked human. Like a naked, beautiful human, still adorned with bits of jewellery and a dark blue scarf.

"Now then, it's time to track down a certain witch." He said, casually striding back over to John's frozen form. He was pretty much eye level with a certain impressive piece of anatomy, and if John were human, he was certain he would be blushing bright red. As it was, he couldn't string together any coherent thoughts.

The God knelt down. The only thing that gave away his godly status were the familiar, beautiful eyes. Still, they glowed.

Then he grinned. John had eased up in Sherlock's presence, but at the sight of that smile, every danger instinct he possessed perked up once again. He had to wonder: why was Sherlock going out of his way for this? John was a measly Gifted human, and Sherlock was an Ancient One.

_Somehow, I think I'm going to be asking myself that question for a long time._

"John," Sherlock purred. "Time to go on a witch hunt."

If the bat could scoff, he would have. _You better put some clothes on before you even think of leaving the house._

**_AN:_ **You know the drill guys.


End file.
